


Unfortunate circumstances

by That_Unknown_Anon



Series: Jonathan Sims can't catch a break [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Ambiguous/Open Ending, Angst, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Minor Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Monster Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sort Of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-05
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-16 00:54:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 376
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28573356
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/That_Unknown_Anon/pseuds/That_Unknown_Anon
Summary: Things rarely go well for Jon
Series: Jonathan Sims can't catch a break [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2093595
Comments: 5
Kudos: 14





	Unfortunate circumstances

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah nothing good happens in this fic. This is just an unedited blob I wrote in the middle of the night, but I don't think it's too bad all things considered. So sit back, relax, and enjoy the angst

It was quiet. Had it always been so quiet? Shouldn't the twirling dust make a sound as it draped everything in a filmy blanket, shouldn't the yellow bulbs buzz and whine as they struggled to light the archive? 

The archivist thinks they should, or at the very least once did make such noises. It was only right that such changes in his environment echo, that they were more than the aftermath of their existence. 

Perhaps it was only wishful thinking. A wandering daydream concocted by a fraying mind. He couldn't even comprehend the state he was in. He was all fuzz and extra limbs and papery wings, but the full puzzle of what and who he is can't be truly completed

He was the archivist. Or the archive. Perhaps both? Could something be both pockmarked flesh and creaking shelves? The fact that he could be both the vibrant eyes that watched and the records seemed, strangely, less far fetched

Maybe that was the answer. Maybe the things he saw and felt and the things that tormented his nightmares were inscribed into fragile skin. Torn and fraying (just as his mind seemed to do. Huh) and laying out a story that won't ever be told

Maybe the words reached the wings he shouldn't have. Maybe they /were/ his wings, a mess of ink and paper stuck together in the crude imitation of a moth

(A moth to the flame, awfully poetic. His anchor would have loved that)

You would think the archivist would know. He knows many things, and this is himself after all. But the answer is unreachable. He thinks it's hidden among the papers and books, but the dust and the lights obscured them. 

It was too bright. It was always too bright, and the eyes on his arms especially hated it. Yet, he stayed put. He couldn't leave, it just wasn't an option. His anchor was here, or would be here, and he was going to find him. The persistent pain that seeped from his scars, alive and wriggling with persistent energy slowed him down, but watching didn't often involve moving

He was going to find him. He would come back. The archivist just needed to wait a little longer, just a little longer..

**Author's Note:**

> Constructive criticism would be greatly appreciated


End file.
